Freedom for Expression
by Luigiflipping
Summary: After a night of too many drinks with France, England pees on the Eiffel Tower and has to find a way of making France forgive him. Starts the morning after.


The first thing he heard was an annoyed voice. What it said, he couldn't make out through the throbbing headache. The voice repeated itself. What an annoying voice it was. It was all too familiar, though the similarly familiar pain kept him from recognizing it. Finally, he opened his eyes to the bright room, and let the face above him slide into focus. It was France, of course. It was always France. His stupid long hair and stupid scruffy beard, and stupid… betrayed blue eyes? That didn't seem quite right…

England sat up slowly, putting a hand to his head to keep the room stable.

"Took you long enough," France said, crossing his arms.

"What… What's going on…?" He recognized the room immediately as France's living room. He was laying on the couch where just last week, he and France had-

"Get out of my house."

"What?"  
France looked away, towards the door. "I said get out. I already put your things in a box. Take it and don't come back."

England tried to reason what was going on, but couldn't remember why France might be so furious. "Why, what did I do?"

His asking only made France more furious, and he spat, "Do I really need to remind you? You could hardly forget such a hilarious joke."

"I honestly don't remember… Last thing I know… we were just having a few drinks."

France sighed a quick huffy sigh and shook his head. "You got into a fight and we were kicked out. I was carrying your sorry drunk ass back here when you ran off."

England looked up at him. "That doesn't sound that bad."

Of all the times he had heard France annoyed with him, never had it sounded so accompanied with hurt and hate, as France met his eyes at last. "You pissed on the Eiffel Tower, Angleterre." Though the memories were obscured by the drinking and the headache, England couldn't help but laugh to himself. France did not find it amusing in the slightest. "If you're going to be like that, then just go. You're lucky I even let you stay on the couch. I even threw your crap together, so just take it and get out of my sight."

England had to backtrack through the dying snickers, and held up his hand. "Hold on, hold on. I was piss ass drunk, you can't really think I meant it. Nothing I do that drunk is actually me."

"The only time your intentions are clear is when you're that drunk. That's the only time you tell people who or what you want, and how you want them."

"It's all for a laugh," England weakly argued.

France rolled his eyes. "So the first time you said you loved me was for a laugh? And every time after that was a running gag?"

"No, it's not like that at all!"

This time, it was France's turn to raise a hand, which then waved towards the door. "Non. No more of this. You know what you did, so leave."

England could barely register what was going on, so he did the only thing he could do. He stood, found the box of his things next to the door, and he picked it up, taking it with him to his car. With the box seated on the passenger's seat, England sat in front of the wheel, and put his hand on the ignition. There, he stopped. It seemed so strange, to be leaving like this. He looked up towards the front window of France's home, but he didn't see France there to give him a last little wave goodbye like he had done every other time. Nor did he come in the seconds that followed. England took a deep breath and turned the key to drown the silence with the engine.

All the way home, he couldn't shake the numb feeling that something was wrong. Only when he set the box on his own bed and looked down to see the photograph of the two of them in the London Eye, Big Ben in the background, did it really sink in. France had not only sent him home, he had also sent him away. Permanently.

A silent tear fell onto the photograph, sliding off on its sleek curved surface. It was soon followed by another. England's hand shook as he lay the photograph back in the box, and then roughly pushed the whole box off the bed, its contents scattering on the floor with a clatter. Trinkets and memories, as well as the change of clothes he had left behind one time. All thrown together as if they meant nothing after one mistake. Or had it been only the one?

England fell onto his bed where the box had been, releasing his held breath in trembling tears as he remembered how often he had joked at France's expense. How often he had still berated him, even as he was trying to have an honest moment. How often he had rejected his affection. In fact, it seemed that all he did was tear France down. They had been bitter enemies before… It had left England bitter while France easily stepped to into being a boyfriend.

The next day, England knew what he had to do. Somehow, he had to convince France to take him back. A quick phone call confirmed what he had dreaded; France had blocked his number. England looked through his contacts, wondering who he could count on, and at the bottom of the short list, he looked back through them, and sighed, calling America. He explained what had happened, but America just laughed obnoxiously and said he would have to deal with it himself, before hanging up. The next call went to Canada, who naturally took France's side, and insisted England find another way to apologize. England sighed, and critically looked through the names once again for someone who wouldn't be busy and would be close enough to travel, as well as someone who might let him borrow their phone. Sealand seemed like a good choice, but Sealand was, of course, with Finland and Sweden, and refused to leave. Finally, England surrendered and called his brother and neighbor, Wales. Wales agreed to come over, thankfully. However, England immediately regretted calling him, because he brought Scotland and Northern Ireland with him, and after a few minutes of joking about his dating problems and getting drinks, they sat down and made him tell the full story.

After filling his brothers in on what had happened, as well as a few more tears than England would like to admit, Scotland volunteered his phone. England caught it when it was thrown at him, and he copied France's number into the keypad, and after a glance at the waiting UK, he took the ringing phone to the kitchen. A few more anxious seconds, and he heard the voice he was waiting for.

"Bonjour."

"Hey, France, it's me. We need to talk."

There was a pause, before France said shortly, "You have a wrong number," and hung up.

"Damn," England said quietly to himself.

Behind him, from the living room, Wales said, "Use mine. Catch!"

England turned quickly and barely caught the device, not even surprised that his brothers had been spying in. He dialed France's number again, and waited. This time, he didn't wait for France to greet him, taking a new approach. "Listen, you can't just send me out on my arse and not let me say anything. Firstly, you-" A small click interrupted him as France hung up. "Damn!" he said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Scotland and Wales looked at Northern Ireland expectantly, and the Irishman reluctantly dug his phone out of his pocket and handed it over. Hoping the third time was the charm, England yet again dialed France's phone number. France picked up quickly this time, and there was silence between them.

"Angleterre?"

"Yes?" England replied meekly.

"Are you done being a child?"

England sighed. "Yes. I just need to talk to you. In person." He glanced back at his watching brothers, and added, "Alone."

"Angleterre, no amount of explaining will be enough. You defiled one of my greatest treasures in one of the most hideous acts you could have possibly done. And don't think for a moment that you can just apologize and walk back into my life. You have no empathy. You could never really mean the hollow words you say."

"Then meet me somewhere, let me say them anyways," England pleaded.

"Non. You won't take advantage of my pity that easily. I'm sick of you acting like I mean nothing to you. This conversation is over." Without waiting, he hung up again.

Out of both phones and ideas, England felt defeated, and brought the phone away from his face, and stared at the screen.

"Well?" Scotland prompted. "Did you finally get yer date set up?"

Wales punched his arm. "Of course he didn't, look at him."

"Then we gotta think of somethin' else."

Northern Ireland eyed him suspiciously. "We?"

"Come on, for the UK!" Scotland insisted, and hooked his arms around his fellow conspirators' necks to pull them in.

The four of them went back to the living room, and started brainstorming, lead by Scotland. England rejected most of their ideas immediately. Finally, they found one they could agree on, and England started to prepare.

France sent England away in a fit of fury, but even as the front door slammed, he already wondered if he would regret his decision. He assured himself that it wasn't right to take the constant underlying abuse that came with dating such a man, and resolved not to think about it. Thankfully, he didn't hear from England at all that day. The day after, however, brought the real test. Through the phone calls, France held his ground firmly, and that was that. After the third strange phone number, he was relieved to not be bothered anymore. In fact, it was several days before he heard anything of the Brit he was trying to forget.

France was actually quite enjoying those days by himself. He spent a lot of time walking through the streets of Paris, admiring the sights and sounds around him, as if anew. And then it came to an end.

On that last day, France returned home especially late, having been out on another long walk. He opened his door to find that there was someone there in the darkness. He reached for something to hit the intruder with, when the lights were flipped on. The face he saw was the very one he had been avoiding.

"Angleterre? What are you doing here, how did you get in?" France demanded, brandishing his key as his makeshift weapon.

England put up his hands to show they were empty as he quickly said, "You didn't take my key, I just came to talk."

"Then start talking," France said, and didn't let go of the key as he closed the door and stepped farther into the room.

"Look, well, I'm really not good at this… I didn't exactly come to talk Just… just listen, alright? To the end." As he said this, he bent down and picked up a guitar case.

"Just what are you trying to pull?"

"I'm just pulling the guitar out," he tried to joke weakly. Realizing that France was not amused, he dropped the attempt, and removed the acoustic guitar from it's bag. With it, he sat on the couch and gestured for France to sit across the coffee table in the armchair. France knew it was going to be a bad idea, but sat where England had indicated. "Now, I know this is going to be odd, but I'm doing something I would never normally do, so just hear me out."

France gave his best glare as he scathingly asked, "What, apologizing and meaning it?"

The look achieved the desired effect, because England looked away, guilty. "No… playing a Coldplay song unironically."

"Well, get on with it."

First, England briefly made sure his guitar was in tune, and then glanced back up at France and cleared his throat. France looked down at the keys in his hands, and felt the ridges with his thumb as England started to play and sing his song. He had chosen "Fix You" by Coldplay, and it was going well for the first two verses. Then, as he was about to go into the first chorus, France could hear his hands slip a little, and glanced up as England quickly fixed his mistake. It was then that France noticed that England's strumming hand was shaking a little. As he sang, his eyes were fixed on the strings, making sure they didn't make another mistake. All the while, France could see that the song itself was the meaning England wanted, and he was doing his best to convey the message.

The song went on until its end, and all the while, France kept watching the performance. A small smile even found its way onto his face. When he strummed the last chord, England glanced up and looked relieved that France was at least listening. "Was that all?" France asked kindly.

England seemed a little embarrassed. "Yeah. That's all."

France got up and took his time crossing around the coffee table, tucking his keys in his pocket, and slipped behind the neck of the guitar, onto the cushion next to England. England blushed a little, and carefully set his guitar aside as France put his hand on England's knee.

"I hear what you mean," France said.

"What I mean?"

"Angleterre, I want to give you another chance. But do not be confused. It was not the song or the playing that convinced me." France took his hand off England's knee and lifted England's hand in both of his own as he said, "I could tell, for once, that this meant a great deal to you. That I meant a great deal to you."

"You still do. You can't just know someone your whole life and be expected to forget them in just a few days," he reasoned.

The smile on France's face grew a little as he leaned in closer. "Knowing you, you would probably hold onto it forever, too stubborn to let go."

"That's where you're wrong. I wouldn't want to let go. I've been horrible, but we've had some really good times together. I should know, you sent me with all the pictures to prove it."

"I'll be wanting those back you know," France said with a quick glance at England's lips.

The hint went unnoticed, and England obviously asked, "How about tomorrow? It's already too late tonight to make the trip."

With a sigh, France said, "Get a clue, mon amor," and before England could protest, France kissed him.


End file.
